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Working Class
Part 1 Having spent many days deep in the lush forests of Ashenvale Grushnak decided to pay a visit to the Warsong. He was enjoying his more relaxed days as of late; it gave him the chance to spend time in Kalimdor again. Rare had it been where he could find the time to truly enjoy his race's new home. Riding into the Warsong Camp, he was greeted not by the bustle of work, but a scene of chaos. Dead Orcs lay strewn across the ground close to the hold; chopping axes clutched firmly in dead green hands. A quick survey told him that the camp had been attacked recently from the west under cover of the trees; elven archers by the look of it. Conflict between the two races was common, but it was unusual to see such a scene in an otherwise civilian area. Closer to the hold he could see what appeared to be the current foreman. Figuring he would be the best source of information Grushnak dismounted from his wolf and approached him. Peons both wounded and not, stared at him in respect. It was rare for such an obviously seasoned soldier of the Horde to be among their ranks. Grushnak was reminded of himself at that age, how eager he was to take-up the axe and become a grunt; how eager he was for battle. But, he reminded himself that wood needed to be chopped, just as weapons needed to be made and fortifications needed built. There was nothing wrong with the life of a peon. Too young to truly fight, but still vital to the existence of the Horde. Grushnak calmly spoke. "Lok'tar Ogar friend, what has happened here?" "Elves. They attacked in the early morning, just as the shift started. About a dozen of them, attacking from the west. They sought not to injure the grunts, but instead attacked the peons. Have they no sense of battle honor? Many of these Orcs are barely old enough to chop, let alone fight." the foreman said as he saluted. Scowling as he replied, he could not help but be appalled, "Attacked the peons you say? Cowardly as usual. They hope to set us back by disrupting our supplies. Have you informed Orgrimmar?" "I have sent an outrunner to the capital, yes. I fear it will be days before we can get replacements. The battles stretch us thin; even now morale is in the gutter. I hope that others can be transferred here as a temporary solution. Even now I am down many men. I have quotas that I cannot fill now." The foreman spoke with a frustration that Grushnak understood. "Then I will borrow a corner in the hold if you don't mind" he retorted. Something needed to reaffirm their faith in the Horde; something that would make work continue despite the heavy losses. When Grushnak emerged much had changed. All of his armor and weapons had been exchanged for a set of simple leather. His mind drifted again back to his time on Draenor, before his clan was shattered, before his homeworld was lost. He was but a peon at that time, same as these men were. Laughing at the wide-eyed foreman, he scooped up an unused wood chopping axe. "Foreman, get a few men to bury the dead. There is work to be done. I am not above cutting wood, as any soldier should not be. Where shall I begin?" Part 2 The bonfire raged with life within the Warsong hold. Its flames served to illuminate the great hall as well as provide a source of heat for the gathered Orcs. Grushnak inhaled deeply and savored the smell of seared pig flesh. Soldiers told stories of battle and adventure, while shamans told of the elements and history. Even the peons themselves added what they could, stories passed down from their fathers and clansmen. Grushnak was content for the time being, the weeks he had spent helping the Warsong served to revitalize him. Here there were few warlocks, no Forsaken, and no demons. Just good honest workers and soldiers. Although he had developed a sense of friendship with them; as he ate, feasted and worked along side, he could not help but feel as distant as ever. This Orcs were all of the Warsong, it was this clans banner that flew high, this clans heritage that each Orc bore. He absently rubbed his tattoo, a constant reminder of his own clan and its history; of the Bleeding Hollow. In times past the Bleeding Hollow banner was common, in every battle, on every front. Kilrogg himself had attempted to lay siege to Stormwind and commanded the lands of Dun Morogh. They fought under one warchief, and one shaman. Proud and fierce they were, and also blind. As a child he only knew glory for the Horde. How he waited and counted the years until he could take up arms as a grunt. The clan was also blind, as all save the Frostwolf were, and helped to destroy the very land they called home; Draenor. His future and dreams had been shattered along with that red land when the Orcs fled from destruction. Out of one hell and into another as fate would have it. Instead of years of glorious battle under the Bleeding Hollow banner, he would instead serve as a slave under the whip of Lordearon and Alterac. Even now, united under the New Horde, they were better off. He hated to admit this, although he knew and truly believed it to be true. Part of that sacrifice was the loss of his clan identity. The Bleeding Hollow found itself shattered after Thrall freed them. Kilrogg was missing and the weight of ten long years of slavery bore hard. Willingly, they took up the banner of the New Horde instead of their own clan. Although all were united under a true leader, only the Warsong and Frostwolf retained their clan identity. Grushnak knew his bitterness was simple jealousy. In his dreams Kilrogg himself, ancient as he would be now, returns to the Horde and the remnants of the Bleeding Hollow reclaim their name and ancestry. A stern slap to his shoulder breaks his mind wandering; the foreman has offered a toast to the memory of Grom. Raising his tankard of rotgut high he takes up song along with them, for tonight is not a night for angst, but a night for feast, song, and drink; a night as the true Horde. Category:Story